Reuniting with My Lost Love After 5 Years

I’ve always thought of New York City as one of the great loves of my life—but not the healthy kind of love. It’s the addictive kind, the one you know isn’t always good for you, but you keep coming back to for one more hit.

When I moved out in 2020 during the height of the pandemic, I didn’t realize I would be gone for five years. I thought I was simply escaping the epicenter of the chaos. I left with a carry-on suitcase and a return ticket for three weeks later. Those three weeks turned into seven months, and somehow, seven months became five years.

In those years away, I often fantasized about coming back—about rekindling the magic I felt in my New York years. I idealized the city, projecting it as a place where everything was better: more alive, more exciting, more abundant, much more sexy. I conveniently forgot the hard parts—walking 15 minutes in a blizzard to catch the 2nd Ave train, the constant schlepping, the terrible apartments with rattling pipes in the winter. Instead, I remembered only the good. New York became, in my mind, the antidote to everything I felt was missing in California.

As any New Yorker will tell you, our pride in this city borders on the fanatical. We believe New York has the best of everything—food, culture, opportunity, energy, and most importantly, the best people. So, naturally, I convinced my husband to pack up our home in Berkeley and come to New York for two months. I had to know if my lost love still held the magic I remembered.

Now, three weeks into this reunion, I can say it: my relationship with New York is exactly what it sounds like—an ex-lover. What we had was beautiful, thrilling, and intense, but it belongs to a moment in time. It’s no longer my reality.

I had been projecting. Fantasizing. I wanted New York to be the easy solution to my discontent—my feelings of not fitting in, of being left behind, of feeling restless and disconnected, of being unsure about my meaning and purpose. I thought the city’s glitz, energy, and endless possibilities would fill those voids. But it hasn’t. And, to be honest, I haven’t even tried to make it so.

I find myself both relieved and disappointed. Relieved because I no longer need New York to validate me, to be the source of my identity. Disappointed because the version of the city I fell in love with doesn’t exist anymore—or rather, I don’t exist in the same way anymore.

The truth is, I’ve grown up. In the five years since I left, I’ve gone to therapy school, become a therapist, and married someone who reflects the person I am now. My world is filled with therapist friends and conversations about growth, healing, and connection.

The old New York me was someone else entirely. She was young, wounded, and so badly wanted to be liked, validated, and to feel important. She hustled to fit in, to rub shoulders with the cool crowd, to chase shiny objects and build an identity around achievement. She thrived on late-night parties, high-energy networking events, and fitting as much into the day as possible.

Reuniting with New York has shown me that love can evolve. What we had was real and formative. It shaped me, molded me, and imprinted itself on my very being. But it doesn’t mean it’s where I belong now—and that’s okay.

New York can no longer give me what I thought I wanted—because what I wanted wasn’t really about the city. It was about me. It was about filling the gaps inside myself with external excitement, distraction, and validation. It was about trying to become someone who felt worthy.

This reunion has been bittersweet. I still see the city’s beauty, its intoxicating energy, and the thrill it offers. But I don’t need anything from her anymore. The love I once sought from New York—her validation, her affirmation, her promise of “making it”—I’ve finally learned to give to myself. What she gave me was more than enough, and I can carry that with me as I continue to grow.

She will forever hold a place in my heart and my existence. Her streets, her chaos, her beauty—all of it is etched into who I am. And even though I no longer have to be here physically, she will always be with me. She’s the grit in my determination, the confidence in my voice, the fire that still fuels my dreams.